Chapter Two

"Shit!" I hissed, wrenching the steering wheel to violently pull over into the closest truck stop I could find. The gravity of my mistake hit me like a physical blow, my mind whirling with the implications I'd failed to consider in my haste to escape the monster I'd left behind.

Arthur could track the GPS in the car. He was a paranoid asshole who had all of his company vehicles installed with additional anti-theft devices, and I should have known he’d do the exact same to the one he gave me. It was how he always knew where I was. It wasn't my phone—it was the damn car.

I ducked slightly in my seat, peering beneath the steering wheel, looking for the cluster of wires under the dash.

Flashes of my old life swirled behind my eyes—echoes of boosting cars that belonged to rival clubs, and quiet evenings in my father's garage when he was showing me how to survive in a world I'd eventually tried to discard. I looked across the lines. I knew exactly what they all did. I knew how to hotwire and rewire them, and even if I’d spent three years telling myself I wasn't that girl anymore, I was damn glad I still knew what to look for.

And I found it. Confirming my worst fear.

There was an extra wire, stamped with the Verlaine Corp logo along the black plastic coating.

Arthur's company logo.

I sat back up, my heart hammering violently against my ribs. I slammed my palm against the wheel in a flash of blind anger, cursing myself out as I snatched my bag from the passenger seat.

"You fucking idiot, Char," I growled at myself, shoving my arms into the sleeves of my old leather jacket—the one I'd had since I was a teenager. Arthur had tried to make me throw it out a dozen times, but it was the last gift my mother had ever given me, so I’d hidden it in the back of the closet. Now, the weight of the heavy hide felt like armor. Despite the mid-spring warmth of the evening, the leather was a layer of protection I hoped would keep my bruises and adrenaline-shaking state concealed enough to get what I needed.

Stepping out of the BMW, I scanned the lot like a wild animal looking for a way out of a trap. There was a small, grimy gas station, a block of brick restrooms, and a line of semi-trucks pulled up for an overnight stay. My heart pounded against my ribs as I walked quickly toward the store, keeping my head down.

I yanked the heavy glass door open, the bell above it shrieking into the dead night air. The attendant—a young but rough-looking guy with a shaved head and spider web tattoos lining his skull—looked up from a grease-stained magazine, taking in my appearance. My dark jeans, the heavy jacket that was unnecessarily layered over a hoodie, and the frantic energy rolling off me as I checked for cameras around the store were a dead giveaway that I didn't belong here, or that I was running from something.

"You alright, love?" he asked, his voice a gravelly rasp that sounded like a four-pack-a-day habit. "Lookin' a bit lost."

I ignored the question, grabbing a cold bottle of water from the fridge along with a bag of chips, dropping them onto the counter. "Can you call me a taxi?" I asked, my breath hitching.

He raised a brow, a snort of disbelief escaping his chapped lips. "Love, you're in the middle of nowhere. Taxis don't come out this far unless you're willin' to pay through your damn teeth." He scanned the items, his eyes lingering on the dark bruises peeking out from the cuff of my sleeve, moving to the silver serpent necklace for a second longer. He seemed to be piecing things together. He leaned beneath the counter, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter, tossing them beside my drink.

"I don't smoke," I lied automatically. Arthur hated the smell, so I’d spent three years hiding my stress-smoking behind expensive perfumes and the scent of damp soil in our greenhouse.

The clerk let out a chuckle that sounded like gravel in a blender. He knew a lie when he heard one. "You look like you need one," he countered, pushing the pack closer to me. He jerked his chin toward the dark highway east of the store. "There's a motel about two miles down the road. They have a local shuttle service that'll get you out of the county, but they aren't running until about six in the morning."

I hesitated, my jaw clenching as the math ran through my head. Two miles on foot in the dark, with Arthur’s tracker sitting stagnant in this parking lot. It was risky—but I had to hope he'd just assume I'd stopped for the night.

I let out a tight breath, swiping the drink, chips, and the smokes before throwing a hundred-dollar bill onto the counter. My eyes bored into the clerk's. "Thanks for the help," I said tightly, my expression hardening in a way I knew a guy like him would understand. I tossed the BMW keys onto the scuffed wood beside the cash. "I was never here."

He smirked, his eyes staying locked with mine as he pocketed the money. In one fluid movement, he swept the keys off the counter and dropped them straight into the store's deep trash bin—a classic move I'd seen a thousand times growing up, the exact way a biker disposed of evidence when a stolen cage was too hot to keep.

"We don't get chicks out this far," the clerk said, already turning back to his magazine as if I’d vanished into thin air. "Whoever thinks we do is trippin'."

I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets, turned on my heel, and marched out of the gas station into the cool night. I shoved the water bottle into my duffel bag and tore the plastic wrap off the cigarette pack with my teeth, sparking a light as I headed east down the pitch-black highway.

My father's voice echoed in the back of my mind, a repeating mantra that helped keep me on my feet even if I'd cut contact three years ago.

A Viper strikes. We don't give up until we stop breathing.